Painting Tarots
by Countryole
Summary: "Jane soaks it all in, every last flash of his smile, the familiar music of his voice as he names people and places. She's reliving the stories as he retells them, using them as place holders for the ones she's lost." A collection of random S1 oneshots from Blindspot that focus on character development. Jane and Kurt centric. Rated T for possible future scenes. Lots of Jeller.
1. Episode 101 Tag

_**Painting Tarots**_

 _Episode 1.01 Tag_

* * *

His name is on her back.

Kurt Weller doesn't believe it at first, but it's there, plain as day.

The Jane Doe (because she doesn't have a name) is barely able to control her own body, so the men in suits try to hold her up. Her eyes are empty and vacant, like they're staring at something no one else can see. They cover her up again, his name only one of hundreds of tattoos hidden by a hospital gown. And yet even though he told Mayfair he'd never seen this woman before in his life, there's something strange, something familiar about her that makes him uncomfortable in his own skin. He wracks his memory trying to remember her face.

 _Who are you?_

He'd look back later and realize even then, when he didn't have a clue, his heart already knew what his head had refused to admit for 25 years.

* * *

The first thing Kurt notices about Jane Doe is her eyes.

They're green, so much more alive now than when they were clouded by sedative in that exam room the previous night. Then there are the tattoos on her arms, her neck; they're intricate and varied, no two the same. She makes the too white walls of the FBI interrogation room feel like a glaringly blank canvas, a gallery that would have otherwise been empty if it weren't for her sitting in it. Kurt tells himself not to stare, but he has to focus somewhere to keep himself from following the patterns of ink that spiral up her arms and down her neck. Her face (and those _disconcertingly_ bright green eyes) is the only thing left, and suddenly not staring becomes much harder than it should have been. It's just the two of them and their closest FBI friends behind the observation window, but it feels much more intimate than that.

Kurt remains cordial, polite, trying to help her subconscious mind coax whatever information her memory might have hidden out into the light. It's never easy, finding the balance between looking at a situation objectively, and having compassion for a victim. He's always done it well, but the personal connection in this particular scenario isn't the kind of stuff they train you for at Quantico. He can't shake the image - his name between her shoulder blades. The heavy weight that currently sits on his shoulders is one of responsibility. Was her life put in eminent danger because of him? If so, the guilt he already feels is enough to make his stomach churn.

It's an emotion he's no stranger to. He's lived with it all his life.

She's angry, frustrated, but who would blame her? He know's what that feels like too. Her eyes never leave him, desperate and searching for answers he can't give her, as if they're begging for a savior.

 _Please help me._

He wishes more than anything that he could.

"I know this is overwhelming, but please try. Something may come back to you." He is a perfect picture of calm, an anchor in the chaos for the woman drowning in the chair across from him. The only thing that gives him away is his own desperation, a fleeting glimmer against his steely blue eyes that peer anxiously back at her. He would never admit it, but part of him needs her to remember, not for her sake, but for his.

When she reaches for his hand, it's like electricity.

Kurt has always been naturally suspicious by nature, protective of his personal space, inclined to pull away from strangers, and sometimes even friends. His first instinct is to stop her, to push her away. Except he doesn't. Against his better judgement and his inherent reflex to recoil from the unknown, the unpredictable, some small part of him tells him to stay. She reaches for his face, and he almost stops her again, but can't bring himself to do it despite every fiber of his being wanting him to. Their eyes lock, his focus split between how uncomfortably close she is and how light her hand is against his cheek. In those few seconds the entire rest of the world fades away, and she's all that's left.

It's more than he can stand.

Jane's presence overwhelms him, the closer her proximity the harder his heart starts to race in his chest ( _get a hold of it, Weller_ ). He gently moves her hand away, but he can't ignore the trail of fire her touch leaves in it's wake. He takes a breath and steadies himself.

"Anything?" He murmurs.

"No." She shakes her head, crestfallen.

She pulls away from him, and it's all he can do to hide his own disappointment.

* * *

Twenty four hours. It's ridiculous really, that in the short span of a day one person could change everything, that in one day everything he's ever told himself to believe his entire life ends up being utterly wrong. Twenty four hours since the woman who climbed out of the duffle bag in time square, the woman who sat with him in that interrogation room, has turned his world completely upside down. And what's more, in those same twenty four hours, everything he ever knew about himself has been contradicted so many times that it's making his head spin.

All because of _her_. Jane Doe.

It's been a full day. Chasing a bad guy across the city, only almost getting blown up once, and successfully preventing the Statue of Liberty from being leveled to the ground constitutes as a job well done in his book. He's at that point where it's been so long since he slept that he's not sure what sleep is anymore. So when she asks, Kurt's more than happy to drive Jane back to her safe house, something blessedly normal and domestic after the whirlwind they just lived through. However, it's possibly one of the shortest and longest drives he's ever had to make in his life. Half of the time he's trying to revaluate the entire day frame by frame in his head, trying to figure out the exact moment things changed. The exact moment she became more than just a suspect to him.

The other half is spent trying not to let his eyes wander from the road, which is hard when all you want to do is look at the person sitting next to you.

Since when had it become so easy for someone to bypass the carefully constructed walls of self preservation he was so good at putting up? The same walls Reade and Zapata would have said he was famous for? It's getting to him (or _she's_ getting to him) and he's not sure what to do with that type of self realization.

Jane saves him from having to look into it much further though, for which he's eternally grateful. Standing in the hallway of the safe house with her he's reminded, with a tinge of sadness, that she's the one who needs reassurance, not him. It's remarkable really, how strong she is. Given everything that's happened, the circumstances, he's not entirely sure how she's held herself together. But in moments like this, when she's alone with him, he see's the shadow of vulnerability she keeps hidden, and he knows that she's not as invincible as she'd like everyone to think.

"How did you know I could make that shot?" Her voice is small and her eyes well up. It hurts him to see her like that, the palpable undercurrent of fear hovering around her.

"I didn't know." He's nothing if not honest, but he offers her a sincere, crooked half grin, because it's been so long he doesn't really remember how to smile. "I took a chance on you."

She's manages a weak smile in return, but that's when the levy breaks. The confident, courageous woman who had fought side by side with him all day, who was grazed by a bullet, and killed a man to protect him (to protect _him_ ), now stands in front of Kurt fighting a different battle. One where the outcome is either holding herself together or letting herself fall apart.

"None of this feels real." Jane clenches her jaw, fighting tears.

"Jane…" Kurt's eyes soften, and he takes a step toward her. "You're going to be ok. _I promise_."

"I don't know what that feels like."

He's always been able to pick up the pieces of his own screwed up life and stick them back together. This is different though, and Kurt doesn't know how to fix something - or someone - who's pieces are completely missing. How can he make her a promise he's not even sure he can keep? His chest tightens, and he finds himself desperately wishing he _could_ somehow fix this, that he could find all of Jane's missing pieces and help her put them back together, to make sense of this insanity that she's fallen into. If only it were that easy.

In the time being he does the best he can with what he has, and suddenly their roles are reversed from their first meeting in interrogation the night before. This time Kurt reaches for her without hesitation, closing the gap between them, and she falls into his embrace. With a deep breath she buries her face into his shoulder and wraps her arms around his waist, while his cheek rests against the top of her head.

It surprises him how easy this is, when twenty four hours ago he would have run in the opposite direction. It surprises him how the decision to hold her is as involuntary as breathing, as if she were meant to be right there.

When he sees the scar on her neck, it explains _why_.

* * *

 _ **AN:** Soooooo I'm back. With Blindspot fic. For those of you who followed me for my Covert Affairs fiction, I hope maybe this will entice you to watch Blindspot. The show is fantastic, and the writing and character development phenomenal. Mad kudos to Jaimie and Sully because their chemistry is awesome. Their first scene together in the pilot (POWERFUL stuff) is what hooked me. _

_For any new readers, hi! This is just going to be a collection of random one shots, mainly character studies I guess, I like to get inside character's heads and look at what we don't necessarily see on screen. And it'll all be canon because I only write canon and very rarely do anything besides that (#canonjunkie). It'll be mainly Jane and Kurt, and obviously Jeller because HELLOOOO the way the look at each other I just can't. Anyways, the oneshots will umbrella here in episodic-ish order, and if I get the muse to write anything beyond that (like a longer, more specific episode tag or something with more depth to it) I'll write that in it's own separate deal. Let me know what y'all think, what you want to see, I love feedback and I love discussion! I try to reply to everyone who leaves a review because it's just so fun talking about a show/characters you love with people who love them as much as you do._

 _If you get the title, bravo. x)_

 _Cheers! xoxo_


	2. Episode 107 Tag

_**Painting Tarots**_

 _Episode 1.07 Tag_

* * *

Jane can't decide if she has a headache because she can't remember the last time she's eaten, or if it's because her mind is still racing after the insanity of the last twenty four hours. Or it could be that every time the jet so much as wavers she feels like she's about to grind every last one of her still intact teeth right out of her head. Her fingernails have probably left permanent indentions in the FBI's leather seats - oops.

When they finally touch down at LaGuardia, she says a small prayer of thanks and has to stop herself from flying down the steps of the jet and mowing the rest of the team over in the process. She all but kisses the tarmac, inhaling the not so fresh New York City air and reveling in the fact that she isn't currently suspended 30,000 feet in the blue skies overhead. She makes a solemn promise to the earth underneath her feet that she'll do her very best to never leave it again - helicopters and combat zones be damned.

"You ok?" Reade asks her as he passes by to the waiting SUVs with Zapata, a defeated looking Saul Guerrero in tow. Jane's guessing by Reade's sorry attempt to hide his smirk that it's a little _too_ obvious she's glad to be on solid ground.

"Never been better." She quips.

Kurt walks beside her with an uncontrollable grin. Unlike Reade he doesn't try to hide the fact that the irony of the Jane's plane phobia still amuses him. In an attempt to at least be a partial gentleman he does try not to laugh, but it comes out anyway.

Jane entertains the idea of kicking him in the shin, but she settles for glaring daggers his direction instead.

To be honest she really isn't mad, because he's smiling again. Her chagrin is worth at least that.

* * *

They make it back to headquarters and their parade through the main office is met with the slow claps and whistles of beaming colleagues. Kurt walks to her right, Guerrero in front of him, his vice like grip on the man's arm. Ever the bureau's esteemed boy scout, Kurt nods in acknowledgement of the applause, his agreeable semi-smile (the kind that barely breaks the thin line set by his lips, but still reaches his eyes) firmly in place.

Jane is, for all intents and purposes, unreadable, displaying no emotion, eager to get away from the crowd. She finds these situations suffocating, being at the center of attention. However, she is thankful for small mercies; at least, for once, they aren't all looking at _her_.

She knows there should be some sense of relief that they won this battle, that they have one of the FBI's most wanted criminals in their possession, that they all made it home alive. Yet as they march by a grim-looking Mayfair at her office window, Jane doesn't miss the sudden shift in the atmosphere. Kurt's eyes darken as they pass, a visible storm cloud hovering over him. It's the only reminder Jane needs to remember that things aren't as they seem. The fact remains that the majority of the people in this building do not trust her. The heroes get to come home, but the mystery of her place amongst them remains the same.

Her first thought is to try and be reasonable, to not assume anything from the split second exchange of glances she just witnessed between Kurt and the director. The problem is that she spends entirely too much time watching Kurt, watching those eyes (when he isn't watching her), and the flash of suspicion she saw is undeniable.

She would have pulled him aside and asked him about it if they weren't currently escorting their prisoner to lock up. She adds it to the ever growing, daunting list of things she needs to talk to him about.

Their procession stops at the end of the main hall, where the building divides into different subdivisions. Tasha and Reade flank out across the hallway and Kurt stands ahead of them as four armed guards appear from behind one of the many doors that line the walls. They nod at Kurt as they approach, who then releases his less-than-gentle hold on Guerrero's arm. The captured man is unnervingly silent through the whole exchange, and Jane can't help but wonder what sort of discipline and for what reason he's kept quiet this long. The guards take up a sentinel position around the older man, and begin escorting him further into the labyrinth of the building.

"I can take it from here." Kurt turns back to the team, gesturing to where the guards are rounding the corner with their prisoner and disappearing. Jane's first instinct is to protest, but Kurt levels her with a look that forces her to bite her tongue. It's the same look he gave her that day in the parking lot, when he told her that she didn't trust him. As much as she resents that, she makes an effort to honor his request now, smothering her indignation into silence.

"Tasha, if you'll just make sure we start a debrief by morning-" Kurt glances at Zapata "-and Reade, if you'll help, you're all free to go home. Get some rest. Jane…"

Kurt pauses, and Jane notices a flash of hesitation in his expression as he stands face to face with her. His silence is likely for a myriad of reasons, but it's the look on his face that catches her off guard. The same uncomfortable uncertainty she'd felt walking by Mayfair's office just moments before is now mirrored in Kurt's eyes as they stare back at her. Her resulting frown is accompanied by a dubious raise of her eyebrows.

 _What wasn't he telling her?_

It's too late to try and confront him, though Jane is tempted to grab his arm and stop him from leaving. The team doesn't miss the exchange, especially the ever aware Reade whom nothing escapes. He watches Kurt intently with an openly curious Tasha at his back. Before Kurt can say anything else one of the guards has returned back around the corner, interrupting the moment.

"Agent Weller, Director Mayfair is waiting for you in interrogation."

Kurt frowns, nodding at Reade, some unspoken agreement passing between them. With the proverbial torch of command handed over, he turns on his heels and follows the guard back down the hallway and out of sight.

"Ladies first." Reade gestures with a sweep of his hand.

"C'mon, Jane." Zapata touches her arm. "He'll catch us up as soon as he can."

Jane doesn't argue as she follows them back down the hall and into the bullpen, but something nags at her the father she walks, and the farther away Kurt gets with every step.

* * *

The locker room showers are a hundred times better than the shower at her safe house, so Jane takes complete advantage of them while she can. She lingers in the steaming hot water for as long as humanly possible, imagining that if it scalded her skin enough some of the tattoos would melt themselves away and disappear into the drain along with all her problems. If nothing else perhaps it would clear her head, and give her a temporary escape from the never ending barrage of emotions she's been forced to deal with the past few days. No such luck though. Twenty minutes later her thoughts are no less scattered, and the reflection in the mirror as she towel dries her wild hair is still the same.

A knock on the outer wall into the shower area makes her jump, and Jane wraps the towel back around herself, Zapata's head appearing from behind the entryway.

"Sorry." Zapata displays her classic grin, which Jane notes is far less intimidating than its distant cousin - her infamous scowl. "I didn't meant to walk in on you."

"You're fine, I was just finishing up." Jane tries to find somewhere between friendly and pleasant for her tone of voice, but it comes out sounding flat and forced.

Tasha Zapata isn't scared off easily. In fact, if Jane were to count the number of times her helpless, awkward socialization skills have chased off potential conversations from other living, breathing human beings, it was never around the feisty FBI agent. Now is one of those moments, but Zapata isn't the least bit phased, and for that Jane is thankful.

"I brought you some clean clothes," Zapata steps forward, said clothes folded and stacked neatly in her hands. "I wasn't sure what size you were, but my stuff should fit you close enough. I'll put them on the bench out here." She gestures back over her shoulder with a tilt of her head before she turns around and sets the clothes down.

"Tasha-" Jane calls after her, stopping the woman in her tracks while she's trying to leave. Jane's struggles to find something to say, so she settles for the obvious, though her sincerity is hardly any less genuine because of it. "Thank you."

"No problem." Zapata smiles. She pauses, leaning against the wall. "Just for the record, you kicked some serious ass out there today. I should be thanking _you_."

Jane is taken aback, surprised that the woman who spent the majority of her time handling Jane with kid gloves (and the occasional glare of incredulity) would be thanking her for anything.

"Why's that?" Jane asks quietly, subdued and tentative, as she so often is in these situations. She's become so used to being treated differently, to being outcast, that a small part of her is secretly elated, secretly craving the acceptance being given to her by proxy of Zapata's praises. Damn her screwed up psyche and it's need for affirmation, constantly hungry for the monotony found in normal, everyday conversation. Her subconscious is starving for a tangible human connection, something beyond what that tattoos connected to her psychical body have to offer her.

"We made it out of there alive because of you." Zapata speaks without an ounce of doubt or hesitation, convinced there's no need for any other explanation. Her brown eyes soften from their usual fire, as does her expression. It's an atypical moment of empathy from a woman known for being a typical hard ass. "When it mattered, you had our back."

"I was just doing what any of you would have done." Jane argues. She pulls the towel tighter around her and tries to tuck her hair back behind her ears, internally cursing the person who cut it so short.

"Just take the damn compliment." Zapata laughs, winking. "I don't give them out very often."

"Noted." Jane dead pans, but she humors Zapata with her own small grin.

Zapata rolls her eyes, the restoration of her usual endearing response of choice indicating that she's returned to her normal mode of sassy and sarcastic. "Go home and get some rest. Good night, Jane."

"Good night." Jane echoes, watching thoughtfully as Zapata walks away.

* * *

Jane feels like a new person in clean clothes. She decides that she'll go wait in one of the empty conference rooms for at least a little while before she heads to the safe house with her entourage, to see if maybe she can catch Kurt before he leaves. Her stomach growls argumentatively, but food is the furthest thing from her mind. Zapata had thoughtfully found her a FBI emblazoned sweatshirt, a size too big, but comfortable all the same. The blue jeans are a little big too, hanging on her hips, but they work. So with a coffee in one hand and an agency laptop in the other, Jane settles into the same chair she had sat in a week prior, when she read the article about the missing five year old from Pennsylvania - Taylor Shaw.

Kurt says its a starting point. She still wonders if he's right.

Leaning back in the chair, arms crossed, Jane glances at the same article now, and the doe eyed little girl in the picture that stares back at her. She's read the article a thousand times, every line and detail memorized. She knows if she keeps staring at it she may very well lose her mind. She finally pushes the laptop shut, sighing heavily before sliding it away from her - as if the small movement would create some kind of real distance from the turmoil of her life that threatens to suffocate her.

She starts watching the people that pass by the conference room. It's a steadily thinning stream as different FBI employees go home for the night, but still no sign of Kurt. She nurses her coffee and waits, imagining the lives of the people she sees; their families, their homes, their normal existence outside these walls that have become _her_ home. She wonders what that's like- normalcy. She thinks back to the plane ride home, and how the past few days have been nothing short of emotionally exhausting. Her relationship with Kurt can only be classified as unusual and unorthodox, anything but normal, and yet she never imagined that watching him actively push her away would be so hard to take - that it would be _painful_.

 _Objectivity;_ that's what Kurt calls it, his excuse as to why it seems necessary to keep her at an arms length. Objectivity, the same reason he probably chose Zapata to go with him instead of her in the woods, and even though he was probably right to do it, it still hurt.

So needless to say it surprised her on the ride home when his walls seemed to be down again, practically non existent in comparison to the volatile bear she'd spent the last few days tip toeing around. So it had slipped out, the words she said on the jet, when she tried to explain to him the thousands of things that were going through her head when they were separated in those woods. She tried to explain, without saying too much, that she never would have lived with herself if she would have lost him that day. She tried to convince him that Taylor Shaw is just as important to her as she is to him. She tries now to convince herself that it's not a lie, even though part of her thinks maybe it is.

Jane chews absently on her finger nail, the torrent of emotions quickly sending her mind into shock, numbing it entirely until the only thing she can do is remember the way Kurt had grabbed her hands when the turbulence during the flight had her all but crawling out of her skin. His hands brought her back to reality. He is the one thing that grounds her.

 _What if you had lost him?_

She pushes the thought away, and swallows the sudden swell of anxiety clawing at her throat.

There were so many things she needed to say to him, but she couldn't begin to think of _how_ to say them. Ever since she woke up and crawled out of the duffel bag in Time Square, naked and nameless and lost, Kurt has been the one constant. It would be incredibly naive of her to assume that they could easily separate themselves from one another given the circumstances. The only thing Jane does know for certain is that she needs them to be ok. She needs to be able to walk the blurry line of her life without falling to one side or the other, one being the past as Kurt Weller's lost childhood friend, and the other the last 25 years of her life she can't even remember. She needs to be able to do this without hurting him. More importantly she needs to be able to do this without hurting herself.

A fools errand, to be sure.

Jane runs her hand over her face, her eyes getting heavy, and the caffeine is doing little to help her at this point. The clock on the wall reads 2000 hours, but when you've been awake for the past 48, the time begins to bleed together. It might as well have been midnight. Not that it mattered, technically, since she didn't sleep all the way through the night anyways.

With a sigh she closes her eyes, surrendering to the temptation of blackness, promising herself it will just be for a few seconds.

* * *

"Jane?"

The hand on her shoulder makes her flinch. Her first reaction is to disarm whoever the hand belongs, and she almost follows through with it until she realizes who it is.

Kurt sits in a chair next to her, and there's only one lamp on in the entire room, the hallway lights are dimmed, and the office otherwise quiet except for the occasional whirring of a computer and lone analyst passing by in the hall on a late shift. The shadows under his eyes are a lot more noticeable now than they were before. When was the last time _he_ slept? Despite the tell tale signs of exhaustion, he still manages to smile at her. It's bashful and childlike, much like it had been on the jet. Jane can't stop herself from returning her own small grin. Controlling her facial expressions around him has quickly become a losing battle.

"Sorry." He murmurs apologetically, pulling his hand away.

"It's fine." She blinks, sitting up and pulling the sweatshirt straight out of nervous habit. She looks at the clock, realizing she's been in here for three hours, and then glances sheepishly back at Kurt. "I didn't think I'd fall asleep on the table."

"There are worse places to sleep." Kurt shrugs, as if he's speaking from experience, a rueful gleam to his eyes that temporarily replaces the cloud of trouble that had been there before.

They fall into a comfortable a silence, but Jane watches as whatever was irking Kurt before slowly tries to scratch its way back to the surface. She could ask him about the interrogation, about what Guerrero or Mayfair might have said, about whatever is giving him that far away look and involuntary scowl, but she doesn't. Instead Jane does the unthinkable. She reaches for him, not even stopping to think, her hands grabbing his where they're folded on the table in front of him. She tries to bring him back to her, to be the one that grounds him.

"Are you ok?" Jane forces herself not to look away when he looks up at her in surprise. He doesn't answer right away, his lips set in a thin line of indecision. She knows better than to try and force and answer out of him, she's learned how well _that_ works. So she chooses to wait instead, hoping that patience will be in her favor.

"I'm fine…" He echoes her earlier sentiment, with the same unconvinced look on his face. He hesitates, looking at their hands hands on the table. "I think the better question is are _we_ ok?"

The intensity of his question is more like a plea, and not at all what she expected. It's so easy to forget that the invincible, unassailable FBI Agent Weller, has spent his entire life blaming himself for her disappearance, believing that it was his fault. His eyes betray him now, destroying any evidence that he's a man without a heart, and it breaks Jane in two. She's reminded of that weight he carries every time he looks at her like he is now; like he's afraid he might lose her all over again.

"I meant what I said." She pulls her chair closer. "We're in this together. So yes, we're ok."

It's not that simple - they both know it - but for now it's enough.

"Good." Kurt takes a deep breath, a sigh of relief, and he pulls his hands out from under hers, placing them back over her own. It's as if that one gesture rights all the wrongs in the world, and she can finally breathe again. Yet at the same time breathing becomes nearly impossible, because all she can focus on is the fact that he's still holding onto her, and that those intense blue eyes of his linger longer than they should (like they always did).

"I know you said you'd rather your security detail escort you," Kurt says suddenly, pulling away and breaking the spell, "but my offer still stands to give you a ride home. And I'll even bribe you with dinner. I know you haven't eaten."

Jane considers the proposition he's laid out before her carefully. She's not blind, she knows how dangerous it is, this connection between them. As much as she wants to let him in, fear of the unknown keeps her in a permanent state of caution. She can't afford to lose the one person who's most important to her by complicating their fucked up situation even more than it already is. And yet…

Her head and her heart are pulling her in two different directions.

The latter wins.

"I'm starving, actually." She's almost certain she's signing her own death warrant. She's doubly certain that her shoulder angel is hanging her head in shame, but the look on Kurt's face is borderline ecstatic, and even if dinner ends up killing her (psychologically or otherwise), it will have been worth it just for that. For one night she'll allow herself the selfish satisfaction of doing this, if not for him, than for herself.

"Let's go then." Kurt stands up, shouldering his duffle bag that had been on the floor. He's temporarily back to the Kurt she knows, the one the doesn't seem haunted by ghosts- the one who's happy to just be near her. "I know a place on our drive back to the safe house. It's one of those whole in the wall types."

"The kind that's questionable on the outside, but the food's so good you can ignore the bodies in the deep freezer?"

Kurt laughs, a real laugh, and the sound is probably one of the best things she's heard in a long time, and she savors it.

"Yeah, Jane, that kind."

Standing over her with his classic half-smile, hand outstretched, Kurt waits patiently for her like he has all his life. Jane takes it with a grin, and he wraps his fingers around the small of her wrist, pulling her up out of the chair.

If this is what normal feels like, she really wouldn't mind it.

* * *

 _ **AN:** So, first off, WOW! Thanks for all the reviews y'all, here on "Painting Tarots" and on the oneshot I wrote called "Always". It's nice for a new fandom to have such a strong readership already - so cool! Your reviews are so appreciated, I love getting feedback! Kurt and Jane have so much baggage just because of the circumstances surrounding both of their pasts. They also have baggage from the present situation, with Kurt trying to protect her by not telling her the entire truth as new clues and missing pieces pop up, and I really think this wears on him. They really will have to confront all of these emotional cross points, but until they do it's going to be a hell of a roller coaster ride. This ep 107 tag was trying to get them back on the right page, not being at each other's throats, coming to a realization that objectivity isn't always going to work for them. We get inside Jane's head a bit. I hope y'all enjoy it - it was really fun to write._

 _Special thanks to my beta readers - love ya! xoxo_


	3. Episode 107 Tag II

_**Painting Tarots**_

 _Episode 1.07 Tag II_

* * *

It's nice, sitting across from Kurt without having to worry about anything other than the moment. It's _really_ nice hearing the sound of his laugh, surrounded by the quiet chatter of the other lingering people in the diner, instead of the bright lights and somber faces that fill the FBI building. They're three beers in and she's glad they parked at the safe house and decided to walk. It was only a couple of blocks anyways, and surely between here and there they couldn't get into _that_ much trouble.

The alcohol makes her brave; her curiosity gets the best of her. She spends at least twenty minutes asking him the most inane questions you could ask someone, because she wants to know— _has_ to know. She thinks maybe if she listens to his answers, she'll find her own.

Except Kurt's answers have been less than forthcoming, which surprises her. Her interrogation attempts are met with repeated stalemates.

"Favorite movie?" She asks.

"I don't really have one."

"Favorite book?"

"There's not a lot of free time to read," he considers her over the top of his beer, amused.

"I refuse to believe you're this indecisive." Jane quirks an eyebrow at him, picking at what's left of the French fries on her plate. Both of their burgers have long since been demolished.

"I'm not," he frowns, reaching over and stealing a fry, "I just spend a lot of time..."

"Working." Jane finishes the sentence for him.

"Working," he repeats, "Last time I checked that wasn't a bad thing." The latter statement is added as an after thought—an excuse.

Jane isn't fooled; she shoots him a look of incredulity before finishing off her beer. She sets the empty bottle to the side where Kurt's has been for a while now, and then rests her chin in her hands, elbows on the table. Not easily deterred, she makes one last attempt to learn something about the man who knows so much about her.

"Favorite color?" She looks at him intently, and for much longer than her sober self would have allowed. Kurt peers back at her, blue eyes bright and inviting. It's no wonder half the time she has to _make_ herself look away, damn him.

"Green." He says without hesitation. It's the first answer she hasn't had to force out of him all evening.

"Why?"

The question is involuntary, and she's not really expecting an answer, but Special Agent Weller is full of surprises tonight. Kurt's eyes smolder for a moment, as if he's debating what he's about to say. However, whatever doubts he may have had for a fraction of a second don't seem to deter him much longer. He leans forward across the table on his forearms, and it's a small table, so he's suddenly _much_ closer.

"It's the color of your eyes."

It takes a second for his words to register. She smiles out of reflex, but she's certain her face is on fire, and her heart rate went from resting to tachycardic in record time. She tells herself this is when she should really, _really_ stop staring at him, but she's drowning in those blue eyes and Kurt is making it practically impossible for her to break the surface. _Deflect Jane, deflect._

"Favorite drink?" She's not so suave when she asks this question. She tries to pretend that nothing just happened, because it was nothing, except maybe too much to beer and not enough sleep. _Wasn't it?_

"Martini," he sits back, and this time he's the one grinning, as if he's proud of himself for unsteadying her, "dry."

"Interesting." Jane sits back as well, appraising him from the slightly safer distance of _her_ side of the table.

"You?"

"Bourbon."

"Hm."

Kurt catches the attention of the waiter, and orders one last drink for the both of them.

* * *

There's something different about the walk home.

Maybe it's the fact that she's wearing his coat, ten sizes too big for her, but it's warm and it smells like Kurt. Maybe it's the fact that she hasn't quite sobered up yet, and she's enjoying her arm hooked through his much more than she should. Maybes it's because they're both smiling, both laughing, and it feels like the chaos of the day, of everything, is so far away it's almost as if it never happened. She marvels at him, at how he does that; he gives her an escape.

They walk together, arm in arm, and there's something very alive about the cold fall air that spirits them along. Jane listens to Kurt talk about his sister and his nephew. He reveals how he met Reade during a brief period of probation at Quantico. He animatedly recounts how they found Zapata when a raid in Brooklyn went sideways and she saved their asses while she was still NYPD. Jane soaks it all in, every last flash of his smile, the familiar music of his voice as he names people and places. She's reliving the stories as he retells them, using them as place holders for the ones she's lost.

When they arrive on her doorstep it's as if no time has passed at all, and it's over all too soon.

Jane digs out her keys and opens the door. Kurt stands behind her, watching the street. She's noticed that he's always watching, even in moments like this when she thinks he's finally given himself a chance to breathe. He never stops assessing, analyzing, _worrying_ ; the precautionary reflexes he's used all his life have become permanently ingrained. It doesn't surprise her, but it does make her wonder; will she always be the source of his unease, missing girl or not?

"That was fun." Jane says quietly, banishing her somber thoughts, standing face to face with him in the doorway. Kurt doesn't cross the threshold, and she knows why. They both remember what happened last time. "Here," she turns and starts to shrug herself out of his coat, "you'll want this."

"It was fun." He agrees, reaching up to curl his fingers around the collar of the coat and sliding it the rest of the way off. Those same fingers brush her neck; they linger longer than she imagines they should, and Jane can't help the way her stomach flips. She reminds herself to breathe normally even though the world suddenly becomes devoid of oxygen.

"Let's do it again." Kurt says as she turns to face him, and it's not a question, but rather an executive decision he's already made. _He's too close_ , she thinks. She glances up at him as he leans against the door frame, and the last time they were this close was the last time she sent him running in the opposite direction.

"I'd like that." Her simple reply is all it takes to make him smile, to light his eyes up, and she swears she can see a whole other world there when she looks at him; one where he's _happy_ because of her, and not the opposite.

She's shivering now, but it's not because of the cold.

Kurt's watching her, and he's struggling, because he knows he needs to walk away before he can't. They both know this, and yet Jane remains powerless to stop her eyes from staring at the all too tempting curve of his mouth. It would be so easy— _too easy_ —to reach forward and close the gap.

The sound of a car door opening makes both of them flinch. Kurt finds his sense, immediately straightening up, furthering the distance between them, though this time he doesn't run. Jane breathes a sigh of relief (or perhaps it's one of regret) when she spots her security detail in the street.

"Good night, Jane." Kurt's departure is different from the last time. Unlike their previous encounter he's not afraid of what's in front of him. In fact instead of darting away, he lingers, the boyish grin he reserves just for her firmly in place. She swears she can see it in his eyes too, a flash of disappointment, of questioning where the lines are drawn _exactly_ , but he finally turns away before she can decide if it's just her wishful thinking or a play of the light.

"Night." She replies softly, closing the door as he retreats down the sidewalk.

Jane locks the dead bolts and then leans her back against the solid wood, because it's _something_ to hold her steady. She closes her eyes, and sighs, her chest tight.

She realizes as she tries to fall asleep later that her shirt still smells like him, and that she likely won't get any sleep at all.

* * *

 _ **AN:** Just a quick follow up to the last chapter that I wrote. I was chatting with some friends on Tumblr about how it is Jane knew how to order Kurt a Martini in 1.09, so here we are. ;)_


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